


fortune favors the hungry

by ElasticElla



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Pre-Canon, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: Her mum doesn’t like talking about grand-grandma Cecile, doesn’t like anything connected to divination. She insists Cecile had a gambling problem, that that’s how all the gold was lost, but Sybill thinks she had a sight problem.She rather hates that she can relate.





	fortune favors the hungry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).

> most of this fic takes place in the summer of 1973, so the referenced bombing is ira activity

Sybill throws down her quill, can’t focus on her history essay. That, that _woman’s_ words are still ringing in her ears, echoed all the way home on the train. 

_Miss Trelawney you simply don’t have the gift. At this rate, you’ll waste an elective spot again next year and fail the OWL. I’m sorry dear… if it were in your blood, it would have manifested by now._

Sybill isn’t a Ravenclaw for nothing, she’ll find a way and show ancient Vablatsky how much of a seer she is. The old shrew thinks just because she wrote a book she knows everything; it’s not going to be like that- it simply can’t be. 

The Trelawneys aren’t a very well to do family, haven’t been since the days of Cassandra. While Cassandra single-handedly established the family fortune, her first daughter, Cecile spent it all down to the last knut. Her mum doesn’t like talking about grand-grandma Cecile, doesn’t like anything connected to divination. She insists Cecile had a gambling problem, that that’s how all the gold was lost, but Sybill thinks she had a sight problem. 

She rather hates that she can relate. 

Divination was supposed to be _easy_. It was supposed to come naturally to her, and then she was going to set up a shop using all of her great-great grandmother’s equipment. The only business costs would be renting a place, and she’d have such a leg up on any competition. She’d earn enough money to move the whole family into London, it was a great plan. Felt like fate with the women of the family always keeping the Trelawney name. 

Two years deep into divination with the professor, and her dreams feel like a far crueler taunt than any of her classmates could ever imagine delivering. There’s only one thing to do, and she rather hates it- she needs to revise her plans. 

.

She doesn’t. 

Her mum’s always said she’s stubborn as a pooka. While waiting tables, she overhears a couple complaining about a muggle fairground encroaching on their unofficial quidditch field, and the epiphany strikes her then, heavy enough that she can ignore their shitty tip. 

Muggles have their own divination. 

(And just like that, the dreams come rushing back, heady and thick, pulling her under. She will make these dreams a reality, she _will_.)

-

Petunia hates the summer. Summer means her perfect younger sister is back in the house, her parents gushing over every mealtime story about Hogwarts. (It’s a small relief that Lily isn’t allowed to use magic at home, a ticking clock until she’s of age that matches when Petunia _must_ move out.)

Summer means that nasty boy will be back, hanging around like a rotten scent, hanging off precious Lily’s every word. Her mum’s already given her the yearly speech about being gracious to her younger sister- the same sister that has moved on from the mundanities of their world, the same one that doesn’t come home for the winter hols or write. 

Lily very clearly made her choice, and Petunia respects that. 

(It has nothing to do with petty jealousy like her mother claims. That Lily’s the beautiful one, the brilliant one, the magical one. No, there’s absolutely nothing petty about her jealousy.)

Petunia’s short nails bite into her palms, but she keeps all responses curt and arguably polite. It’s good enough in their parents’ eyes, and in a surprising twist, she gets permission to go to the Harvest Festival a town over. It’s unexpected, what with the last bombing only a few months ago, and then her mother blathers on about how Lily will be there and the extraordinary circumstances the ban on underage magic is lifted for. 

Of course. Her little sister is to be her minder, and Petunia nearly spits out that she doesn’t want to go anymore. (Cokeworth isn’t a happy town, she shouldn’t throw away a perfectly good chance at fun for spite. Besides, her sister’s shadow will pull her away anyways.)

On a sunny Saturday morning, Petunia’s prediction comes true. Snape bikes to the festival with them, and once they arrive, he quickly drags Lily off to see the animals. It’s irritating how easily she goes with him, that Petunia should be considered worse company than such an uncouth greasy boy. 

Petunia goes to the stalls instead, likes to play the future game. That one day, five years from now, she’ll be so well off she can return and buy whatever she wishes. There’s a gorgeous midnight purple scarf with golden strands, isn’t practical in the least, isn’t even something she’d wear, and yet, it makes the top of her future shopping carriage. A pretty string of pearls is next, then a collection of sensible day dresses that are just the right mix of practical and unique and uniform. There’s a sleek chocolate kitten that steals her heart, and Petunia tries to remember how she hates cats- her aunt has a veritable herd of the smelly beasts- yet this tiny ball of purring brown fur is the cutest thing she’s ever seen. There’s a stall full of freshly baked pies, and her stomach grumbles as she walks by faster. She passes a stand of gorgeous and fragrant bouquets, and really her five year plan needs a rich beau. She frowns at a passing mirror lined with masks, pushes the thought from her mind, there have been plenty of successful single women. Women are even allowed in the stock exchange now, really she oughtn't limit herself. 

There’s a large crowd ahead, and Petunia slips into it, makes her way to the front easily with her sharp elbows. 

“-one of you I shall find your great love!”

Petunia huffs, expected something more exciting given the sizable crowd. The fortune teller, the absolute charlatan, is decked out in gaudy jewelry and more clothes than any one person ought to wear at once. She jingles with every movement, and perhaps it’s out of sadistic curiosity that Petunia stays, to see whatever fool believes this woman. 

Bright blue eyes meet hers, a cracked yellow grin, “Ah yes, you the skeptic, I may not convince you, but I will foretell your heart.” 

Petunia raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and the woman takes her hand, the crowd pushing her forwards. 

Sour breath wafts over her, and she can’t help scrunching her nose, doesn’t care how undignified she looks. The woman isn’t even offended, laughs at the reaction, and makes it worse. 

“The next person to turn down this road, with a heavy purse and sandy hair, they are the one. Part!” She finishes with a yell, and the audience splits, leaving an aisle and a girl that rounds the corner.

A girl with curly blonde hair, and Petunia doesn’t hold back a cruel smirk as she turns to the fortune teller. “Care to try again?” 

There’s jeers from the crowd, and it thins, the fortune teller reaching into her oversized canvas bag. “Here,” she says, shoving two lunch vouchers into her hands. “Return here in five years, you’ll see.” 

Petunia isn’t one to turn down a free meal, the five year comment is just a coincidence. (Aren’t people always talking about five year plans? That’s all it is.)

“Fish and chips?” 

The blonde nods, and introduces herself as Sybill. She’s the decent sort if a little odd, and the oddness clicks halfway through the free meal. 

“You’re a witch,” Petunia says, and it comes out more disappointed than accusatory as she intended. 

“You’re not,” the girl replies simply. 

Petunia flinches, “You knew the prediction was fake.” 

Sybill shrugs, “So did you.”

She bristles, “So what, you thought you’d have a laugh at the regular world? Mingle with the peasants?” 

“More like learn how to swindle people effectively, I hear fairgrounds are best for it.” 

And Petunia smiles despite herself, finds herself saying, “We’ll have to visit the palm reader next then.” 

.

-

.

An eighty-percent accuracy rate may be poor for a witch, but for a muggle- it’s _authentic_. Sybill’s Sight is a modest business in muggle London, not nearly profitable enough to move out the whole clan to either side of the city. The exchange rate is atrocious, but Sybill is a witch, there are few things she and Petunia need to pay for. (The lopsided furniture transfigurations add to the ‘magical aura’ Petunia teases, following the comment up with a kiss.)

Sybill learned much from the muggle fortune tellers, of how to make wide predictions even if she can see specifics sometimes, of adding to the drama of it all, of how very important appearance is. (And as a witch, that’s a very easy one to ace.)

Petunia has a rather strained relationship with her sister, a younger Gryffindor that Sybill vaguely recalls being a prefect. It’s gotten better over the years, they are planning on attending Lily’s wedding together, though they’ve yet to agree on a proper gift. (Sybill _knows_ a vase will go over poorly, but Petunia has a habit of getting stuck in her way when she suspects Sybill’s inner eye is involved.)

They do return to the Harvest Festival one summer, arms linked as they peruse the stalls. There’s no need to throw money away on clothing, a decision that’s easier as no item particularly catches her eye. The fortune teller isn’t there, then again, more than five years have passed. 

There is however a pure white kitten that becomes the third member of their family, little Riley.


End file.
